The Lightman Paradox
by Beloved-the-Fool
Summary: He is simple in his complexity, complex in his simplicity.


**A/N: This is meant to be a fly-on-the-wall view of random ponderings from the mind of Cal, probably late at night when he should be sleeping. Not my best work, but there you go.**

* * *

| TRAP THE SPARK |

He feels it the instant he touches her for the first time, although way back then, he doesn't know quite what it is. Just static build-up from shuffling his feet across the carpeting, maybe. Her slim hand grasps his stronger, much sturdier one in a welcoming handshake. It's the trifecta of the warmth of her skin pressed against his, the warmth of the radiance of her smile, and the warmth of her eyes regarding him with an odd mixture of amusement, curiosity, and genuineness that sets it off.

So.

_Not_ just static build-up after all, then.

* * *

| NO BEGINNING |

Looking back, he honestly can't remember a time when he didn't love her. He's been in it for so long, it just seems like he always has. There must've been a moment when it began, when he first started to fall; but he can't pinpoint it. For all his vast powers of recall, for all his keen perception and clever observations, he can't find the beginning. When he thinks about it too hard, all he can picture are those blue-note sapphire eyes.

* * *

| DRAW THE LINE |

Sometimes he wonders why it even matters what he can see if he's utterly powerless to act on it. He hates the line she drew between them, even if it once made perfect sense. Hates it all the more now and wonders if he hasn't just managed to bind his own hands behind his back with it. Over time, she has quietly acquiesced and shown some willingness to allow the line to fade or recede or maybe – _dare he even hope_ – disappear entirely. And if that's the case – if he's read it right – what _is_ he waiting for, then?

Why _do_ they keep up the charade?

* * *

| BURNING BRIGHT |

He never feels so much a fool as the moment he realises she played him. Had done for years. _Years._ His blind spot she may be, but this one stings. Quite the blow to his considerable ego, this. He's silently seething and cursing himself for not seeing it sooner, for not somehow divining the unknowable from the inscrutable. He's holding back the pain and anger he feels, but only just. He's seconds away form unleashing it all on her in typical, brash Lightman fashion when her words actually begin to sink in, and he is instantly subdued. There are unshed tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she confesses the lie she told to protect a man she didn't yet know, and now she fears he won't understand or won't listen or won't care what her reasons were. Won't forgive her.

And he realises he's only just beginning to understand what love means.

* * *

| MR RIGHT NOW |

See, now that's weird, that is. Because that was a moment of almost total honesty. The unfortunate part is that while she was technically present to _hear_ him say the words, she didn't _see_ him say them. Because, in actual fact, he said them to Dave and with his back toward her. _About_ her, but _to_ Dave. On reflection, it wasn't his finest moment. Probably not the best method of confessing one's feelings for one's lady love – to do so in her presence but confessing to her current love interest. And while said love interest was being violently and prolifically tortured, no less.

And though it makes him feel a _tiny_ bit like a miserable sod, he hopes she wasn't so preoccupied with Captain America's superhero posturing that she missed the truth behind that seemingly simple confession: "Yes, I do…in the worst possible way."

He especially hopes she will recall it now that Burns is forcibly out of the picture.

Cor, he really is a miserable sod!

(but only a tiny bit)

* * *

| DESPERATION |

Even days later, he still tastes her kiss. Every night, he falls asleep with her as his last lucid thought. Every morning, as the clinging cobwebs of slumber break reluctantly in the uncertain light of early morning, the image of her lips pressed to his is released as his eyes flutter open and dream gives way to reality. This is torture.

That susses it.

They desperately need another case that puts them undercover in the porn film industry.

Or some such.

He honestly isn't picky at this point.

* * *

| THE DISTANCE |

He is a right arse. And she deserves better. Of course she does. Better from him. Better _than_ him. Bloody hell, he hopes she doesn't take off running. He wouldn't blame her if she did. It's what he might do in her place. But he hopes she won't go. He needs the distance he creates between them, but he needs her to stay. It's no good without her; _he's_ no good without her. She's his balance, the only thing that keeps him from self-destructing entirely most days. One of these days, she'll leave him, probably. His mum did. Zoe did. She will, too. Probably. If he doesn't find a way to get it right, she will leave. He knows he's on borrowed time.

But for now, when she gets too close, he will turn tail and run across the bridge he prays won't burn in his wake at one more crossing. He'll drink to make the distance between his past, his present, and his future interchangeable.

...until he hears her call his name and call him back to himself...

He loves how she says his name.

* * *

| PROXIMITY |

He is ever in her orbit. He finds reasons to touch her hand, her back, her face. He takes any and every opening for a hug and occasionally scores an innocent-not-innocent, friendly kiss that just misses her mouth. He drinks her in with his eyes when she's watching him, and devours her with them when she's not.

Invasion of personal space. When he does it to other people, it's to drive the truth out of them. When he does it to her, it's that the truth in him is driving him to it.

That, and he just wants to smell her perfume and to see if he can get those baby blues to go just a shade darker.

Yeah, _just like that._

Maybe there's hope here yet.

* * *

| LATER |

When he's on his fourth Scotch and slumped low on the sofa in his office with the echo of her scent in his nostrils, the echo of her body against his when he hugged her goodbye tonight, and the echo of her voice in his ears…

When he's like this, he wonders why she stays.

He wonders if he'll ever have the balls to give her a good reason to stay.

* * *

| NO END |

Looking forward, he honestly can't foresee a time when his feelings for her will change. He loves her. He has always loved her. He always will; and yet, he knows they can't go on like this forever. He's at odds with himself, afraid of moving forward and afraid of staying still too long. Afraid of losing her either way, no matter what he does. It's a sacrifice he's unwilling to make. But then one look, one smile, one touch, one word from her and he thinks _maybe._

Maybe he's just afraid to live. And with her, he's oddly less afraid. She makes him feel brave, and he's secretly grateful she's living this moment with him.

So he chooses to believe that if there was no beginning, there will be no end.

He'll see to that.


End file.
